


Imperfect

by Skerft, Yours_Truly_Commander_Shepard



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Bacnelo, Canon Compliant, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Face-Sitting, Hate Sex, Inspired by Dr. Pimple Popper, Loss of Virginity, Post-Star Wars: The Last Jedi, Purple Prose, Very seriously, ali made me do this, who are still enemies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 17:02:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19873027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skerft/pseuds/Skerft, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yours_Truly_Commander_Shepard/pseuds/Yours_Truly_Commander_Shepard
Summary: What would we do to convince Ali to write Preylo? Turns out, we would make a lengthy, angsty one-shot and full-color illustration about the Supreme Leader's bacne.  And make it canon-compliant. And make it smutty.  It's what the people (Ever-So-Reylo) want.Tl;dr:Rey pops Kylo's bacne, and then she pops his cherry.





	1. Bacnelo: the Fic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ever-so-reylo (Ever_So_Reylo)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ever_So_Reylo/gifts).



> This work contains graphic descriptions of pimple-popping. I'm not kidding. I'm serious as a heart attack. Turn back now, ye of gentle hearts and soft stomachs.

It wasn’t quite an agreement, because they never spoke about it, but they had an understanding. The first few times that the Force connected them after Crait were like the first time: recriminations, shouting, tears. That solved nothing; neither of them is willing to budge from their position, and no amount of noise will change that. Rey accepts that, and Kylo seems to. 

So now they go about their business, mostly. It’s not that they actively ignore each other, but when Kylo’s hulking form enters Rey’s field of vision, Rey continues with whatever she’s doing, whether that is working, eating, or (on one memorable occasion) having a long sit on the toilet whilst reading mission reports. She offers Kylo the same courtesy, mostly.

Luke spoke of the Force as a mystical energy, but Kylo described it with personality and intention, like an insubordinate soldier. Or a mischievous child. The annoying younger brother neither of them ever had. 

How else to explain that the Force connects them at particularly inconvenient moments, like while Rey is trying to go to sleep after a long day, or Kylo is secretly stuffing dessert pastries into his stupid face, or while Rey is naked in the ‘fresher? Situations that make it difficult to maintain the air of detached disappointment that Rey really wants to project to Kylo. 

She is pleased to find it is not one of those days when her awareness doubles, signaling the activation of their bond. Today Kylo is just thrashing training dummies and battle droids with a wooden sword, which is fine. Good, even. If Kylo doesn’t have time in his day to thwack the things that are built for him to thwack, he tends to get tetchy and instead thwack other people and their things, which makes Rey tetchy. 

Rey barely pays attention anymore to Kylo’s training; she knows the forms, and anything she might learn by watching him run through them is outweighed by the constant press of tasks aboard the Falcon. Today, she is installing new FTL power couplings in the drive core, her body painfully wedged into an electrical compartment. 

Kylo, in turn, recognizes that she is not sleeping or bathing or engaging in any other activity that might cause her to screech at him like a Niima Outpost water-vendor’s wife entering her space, and continues with his exercise, blocking unseen blaster bolts from a training droid.

Or perhaps he’s fending off a mutiny, Rey cheerfully thinks. 

He’s been at it for a while, because he’s sweaty and panting as he whirls and slices. Rey would never accuse him of showing off for her—never—but she wonders if he would have ended his workout already if not for the audience. As it is, he has stripped off the padded black tunic he habitually wears over his high-waisted black trousers and maintains only a ragged, sleeveless white undershirt on top. 

All forms, both Jedi and Sith, are based on a circle. Thus, Kylo eventually spins past her in a blur of sparks and sweat. And Rey looks up as he passes. 

She isn’t shallow enough to ogle his arms, or his hands on the sword, or the way his hair clings to the back of his neck. Not while he can sense her thoughts, anyway. Instead her gaze snags on the exposed skin behind Kylo’s shoulder.

The Supreme Leader has bacne.

She’s not certain why it surprises her so much; Kylo is nothing but human, she’s known that since the moment he first removed his mask. And she knows he’s imperfect; she cut scars into his face and body herself. 

But it is such a _personal_ thing to know about him. His deepest fears, his greatest desires, yes, fine. She has a copy of Kylo’s fractured soul tucked alongside her own. 

She didn’t know he had a problem with his skin. And now she does. 

“What.” It is a flat command, not a question, when he speaks it. She would let it go, return to her calibrations, but Kylo stops, waits for her answer. He’ll just stand there waiting until the Force separates them again, she knows this from experience. 

“Your...” Rey can’t bring herself to say it to him. She pats her shoulder, in approximately the place where she sees the bumps on him. 

He cranes his long neck towards his back, trying to see what she is talking about. Spins a little, as though that would help. Rey successfully suppresses her giggle. It’s been a while since they last tried to kill each other and she’s too tired to resume at this exact moment. 

“I don’t see what you’re talking about,” he complains, sounding annoyed.

“Doesn’t the all-mighty First Order have medicated body wash?” she asks. 

“I’m positive I wash more often than you, Scavenger,” he says, a little line appearing between his glowering eyebrows. 

Since Rey knows that he, in fact, has absolutely no objection to her hygiene habits, grooming, or any other facet of her physical being, his retort has no sting to it. She simply rolls her eyes at him, since he’s now feeling for his bumps with a hand tucked over his shoulder. 

“It’s not a matter of soap, you need to use-“

But the Force dissolves their connection before she can tell him.

“-something with benzoyl peroxide in it,” she mutters to no one. 

Contrary to what Kylo must assume, she is not always thinking about him and ways that she can thwart the First Order. There is the simple, animal business of survival: eating, sleeping, keeping the Falcon in working repair. There is the rebuilding of the Resistance: alliances, recruitment, training. And there is also her life: her friendships, the flock of porgs she maintains, her hobbies. It’s just fortuitous that she has the chance to stop by the med bay. The Resistance is doing better, these days. Rey is well-fed, well-clothed, and, should she ever need it, well-cared for. The Resistance can afford to spare a tube of medicated scrub, and Rey has authority to make such decisions. 

Rey is doing better than Kylo, suffice it to say. 

The next time she sees him, he looks like dreck, and he’s either going to sleep or getting up. Kylo is not taking care of himself; his lovely hair is tangled, and his eyes have dark circles beneath them. He does nothing to stop Rey from pushing him down to (his bed? Does he sleep on a bed? A chair? A plane of dark energy?) so she can examine his shoulders. 

Rey knows that he would like her to believe that he is only angry at most of their lives’ recent events, but stoicism is not his usual cover for his true feelings. (Thwacking, mostly, interspersed with smashing). She’s a little surprised at his uncharacteristic passivity in the face of her inspection. 

She pulls the medicated body wash to her with a tug of the Force and sets it directly into Kylo’s hand. He blinks in surprise at the casual way she bends the rules of the universe- or perhaps at her gift. He sets it aside, but does not deny its necessity. His skin in no better shape than two weeks previous, and it has possibly gotten worse. 

Kylo has his undershirt on, so she has to tug it off over his head. He tries to roll to his back, frowning mildly at her, but she bares her teeth at him. He lets go of the shirt with only token resistance.

He’s vain about this, she realizes. He doesn’t think much of his face or his hair—or his capacity for empathy, his intelligence, the way he’s almost funny sometimes—but he likes that he is tall and strong. Taller and stronger than others, at least. He doesn’t want to be imperfect. He would fix himself if he could, but he spent his adolescence with Luke and then Snoke, and neither of them had stressed self-care in their teachings. 

“Let me see,” Rey says, using another wave of the Force to turn on all the lights in the room. Her room or his- she isn’t certain. 

Rey furrows her brow when she gets a good look at his back; he’s been scratching, maybe picking with his fingers. There are old scars from the acne and from Snoke’s tender discipline. Both make her frown. The new bumps she can do something about, though. This she can fix. Rey is good at fixing things.

She swats at his hand when he twists an arm behind him to rub at a large, raised welt.

“Do you want me to clean these out?” she asks, though she’s not certain that she will wait for his consent. 

Kylo turns his head enough to squint at her. 

“I’ll put some bacta on it,” he says dismissively. 

She huffs in derision, because he clearly knows nothing about skincare. Rey grew up alone in a desert, and she knows that bacta won’t work for a blocked gland, since it won’t destroy the inflamed material his own body produced.

“You need to lance and extract these,” Rey tells him, tapping the largest whiteheads. 

“I tried, but I can’t reach,” he admits. 

Rey nods; he’s so kriffing big around the chest, she doesn’t doubt it. 

“I’ll do it, then,” she says. 

“Scavenge somewhere other than my back, you weirdo,” Kylo finally objects, settling back down as though he can simply ignore her.

“They won’t get better if I don’t extract them,” Rey argues. 

He lifts an eyebrow. He doesn’t need to point out that _better_ is hardly what she wants for him. 

“Oh, do you think the First Order will fall on account of your back pimples? Will it degrade your operational readiness sufficient to allow us to retake the Core Worlds? Or will you succumb to a terminal skin condition?"

Kylo shows her his teeth. “Leave them alone and find out,” he says.

Rey ignores that.

“If you keep picking at them, they’ll get infected and then they’ll hurt,” she points out sensibly.

Kylo’s chest expands in a humorless laugh. “Don’t you want that too?” 

Rey shakes her head and lays a hand on his shoulder. 

“I never wanted to hurt you. Just stop you.” This time, she lets her sincerity into her voice. Into their bond. 

He can’t contest her point, not when Rey let him live, even armed him. 

_Before_ she left him, his thoughts tell her. 

He hasn’t forgiven her for that. 

She doesn’t need him to.

Rey goes to the cabinet where she keeps all of her grooming products. She took little with her from Jakku, and it has taken her time to replace everything she’d kept in her cozy AT-AT dwelling, but since she is accustomed to making and scavenging everything she needs, anyway, she has a full set again. 

“You could have someone else do it, perhaps a med-droid…” she offers, even as she is laying out her tools: the sharp little blade, the extractor, plasticine gloves, a cloth.

“Who else would I trust with a blade at my neck?” Kylo asks, his lips quirking up crookedly. And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? That they come together again and again because neither of them can show a single other person what lurks beneath their skin. 

“Lie down then,” she instructs, and after a long pause, he settles himself on his stomach with his arms over his head. 

Rey has to study the approach for a few moments before she realizes that there is only one way that she can realistically do this.

Kylo stiffens when she tosses a leg over his back, but says nothing, for which she is profoundly grateful. His hips are wider than hers, and she has to wiggle a bit to get a comfortable seat. It would no doubt be a little cushier if she perched right on his ass, but he’s too tall for that and she has to crouch over the bony ridges of his hips to be able to reach his shoulders with her hands. 

Even so, his body is so large and warm that Rey can feel it through the thin fabric of her leggings. It’s always hardest to deal with Kylo Ren when he reminds her that he’s a man. She hides the awkwardness of the situation by inspecting her tools.

“Did you even disinfect those?” Kylo asks, not sounding particularly fearful of an infection. 

“Sterilized them with my lightsaber,” Rey retorts. 

It had given her no small pleasure to use the same blade which had massacred children and cut down Kylo Ren on her skincare tools. Kylo looks around at her words, as though he could see past her to where she stores her weapon. Kylo’s own blade is secured to the waistband of his trousers, and it’s digging into Rey’s calf. She ignores it rather than ask him to disarm. It’s not as though her own lightsaber is ever far from her hand. 

Kylo shifts uneasily but says nothing as she pulls on the plasticine gloves, snapping their edges against her wrist. Rey picks up her scalpel and decides to begin on his right shoulder, directly below the spot where her scar ends. She spreads her palm against his back. 

She hesitates to actually cut.

“Do you want to wait until I can get some anesthetic? This will hurt.” 

Rey can feel a dark wave of amusement from Kylo. Everything worthwhile hurt, he noted.

“Fine then, you maniac. Try not to squirm,” she says. 

If anything, the Force is eager to assist her in this. Moving quickly and surely, she lances his shoulder in a dozen places with the scalpel, her hand guided to where it must go. It is so sharp that his skin does not even begin to well with blood for a dozen heartbeats. Their bond reflects the pain but also his nonchalance. She thinks she can get the entire cluster in one go, if the Force is minded to assist her. 

“This next part will sting more—let me know if you need a break,” she tells him, switching to her extractor.

Kylo sends her a memory of a day of Snoke’s training: stormtroopers charging him in endless waves, his own broken ribs, Snoke’s laughter. When he’s hurting, he knows he’s still alive, he tells her. The Sith have a number of sayings about the instructive value of pain as well, but Kylo thinks they’re all stupid.

Rey wipes a few pinpricks of crimson from his shoulder and begins to pull out the infections. The acne heads are in patches spread all across his upper back. For each one, she has to press the extractor down until the embedded pus and tissue seeps out, then wipe it up with the wire loop and then her napkin. The only way to tell if she’s gotten it all is to prod his back with her fingers until only blood wells out of the cuts cleanly. 

Mostly, it’s easy. Her hands move quickly. The debris beneath his skin wants to come out. It hurts, but now it can heal.

_If you had come with me, it could have been like this always._

“What, me cutting you up? I don’t doubt it.” She pretends to misunderstand him. She doesn’t want to talk about it. 

Rey speaks aloud, so he responds in kind.

“Taking care of each other. I would have given you everything.” 

_You wouldn’t even give me the one thing I wanted._

_What you wanted wasn’t a thing. You wanted me to be someone else._

“We disagreed on that,” Rey says, grabbing her tweezers to go after a stubborn blackhead. She stabs it into his pore with more viciousness than it probably deserves, and he grunts. “Be still,” Rey hisses at him as she pulls the tissue out. 

It takes her a long time. There is a lot of skin to cover. All in places he can’t reach. He needs someone to wash his shoulders for him, maybe someone to tell him to visit the med-droid. He needs someone to take care of him and Rey refused the job. 

Kylo is still and calm under her blades even though he knows that soon she will be gone, and there will be nobody to do this for him again, and he will simply be in the same condition sooner or later.

“Only if you live and I do not,” she tells him, observing the thought. She doesn’t want him to think that she would deny him this. She would have helped him, held him, loved…

Kylo tries to imagine that universe, but it sounds unlikely.

She’s gotten all the whiteheads and blackheads she can find—there’s swelling now, so it’s hard to tell. She’ll check again in a few days if the Force connects them and they’re not trying to kill each other at the time.

She runs her hands further down his back. He has a small cyst at the base of a shoulder-blade. 

“Want me to get this out too?” she taps it with the tip of a finger. 

Kylo contorts himself to rub it, feeling the size of the lump. 

“As long as you’re back there,” he says. 

She takes her time with this one. She marks its borders, then the line to cut. Disinfects the skin. (Maybe he will need stitches?). When she cuts, it is deeper than the little nicks she made to draw out comedo trapped in his pores. She has to spit his skin open to expose the cyst, then pull the edges apart with her nail scissors. It must be horrifically painful, but he doesn’t move. Sith training, she supposes. Or natural stubbornness. 

Pressing on the edges of the wound does nothing to extract the inflamed tissue within, and in the end Rey must dig into the wound with tweezers and pull the pus out in chunks. The Force tells her it is clean when she washes the area with Corellian whiskey and sutures it with floss. 

She feels almost…disappointed…when she is done. She brushes her palms across his back, pleased with her work, but wishing there were more. 

“I suppose I should-“

Go.

Kylo shares her reluctance. Pain and pleasure are too closely associated in his mind, and her touch on him is the most intimacy he’s known since... 

Since her hand on his thigh in Snoke’s throne room.

Her fingertips aligning with his across Luke’s fire. 

Her blade cutting into his face in the forest.

It’s all the same to him. It all feels the same to him.

“You could look- there might be more. On my front,” he offers.

Rey nods, as though she doesn’t know exactly what he has in mind. She sits up on her knees, and he rolls over beneath the triangle of her thighs. They both hold their breaths when she gingerly settles herself on top of him again. She’s not so innocent as to be unaware of the implications of sitting astride him like this.

She runs her hands over his wide chest and stomach. He is pale and muscular and perfect. He lets out his breath slowly, pressing up to her touch. 

“I don’t see anything,” Rey murmurs.

“Keep looking,” he urges her. 

She traces the bowcaster scar on his stomach with her fingertips and he shivers. She runs her hand along the valley of his lightsaber wound and his full lips part. 

She could stop now. There is nothing left to cut—no other way to hurt him under the guise of healing him. But below her, she can feel his cock swelling hard and heavy between her legs. Or maybe it’s been that way for a while; she put that possibility out of her mind while she was tending to his back. 

She could just rub herself against that solid length, perhaps the catch of his trousers as well. There would be enough friction, and already pleasure is welling warm and potent in her stomach. That would be something, wouldn’t it? Just to rock their clothed bodies together and let him watch her fall apart. He wouldn’t object, if she wanted to use him like that. She deliberately grinds her hips down, taking his measure. His breath catches and his eyelids twitch, but he doesn’t say a word. 

He doesn’t have to say a word when his mind is open to her: images flash through his mind faster than she can bring them into clear focus. 

Rey on her knees, her lips wrapped around his cock. Rey standing over him, her foot pressing into his groin. Rey bent over his bed, her ass wiggling as he thrusts into her. Rey above him, her hands squeezing his throat. It’s the same to him. Fear and desire and pain and longing. The rush of Kylo’s thoughts makes her dizzy.

She had no idea he thought about it this much.

He looks up at her, mind completely exposed to her review. His dark eyes plead with her while she considers her options.

“Put your hands up over your head,” she says, temporizing. After a beat, he complies. One eyebrow arches in a question. 

“We’ll see,” she answers it. 

Watching him carefully to make certain that he doesn’t move his hands from where they are clasped above his head, Rey slowly unbuckles her belt and unwraps her top. Unhooks her breastband, and lets it drop to the floor. Shakes her hair free.

Kylo thinks her tits are very pretty. The best. 

“Thanks ever so,” she tells him dryly as she pushes her leggings to the floor. He must be biased, to think that. 

Rey climbs back on top of him, now completely nude. There is nothing between them but the thin material of his trousers. Kylo still has his hands above his head, which reassures her, because his expression is…frightening. 

His throat bobs, drawing her attention. So she slowly leans forward, pressing their bare chests together until her teeth are at his neck. Rey wraps her lips around his Adam’s apple and sucks hard. The rumble of the pleased sound he makes in the back of this throat vibrates into her jaw. She sucks harder, wanting to leave a mark, perhaps draw more blood. He gasps at the pleasure-pain of it. 

Her hips grind down on him, right at the seam of his trousers. He can feel the scratch of her pubic hair and the wetness of her pussy against him, and he longs to buck up against her, flip her, hold her down. But he holds himself back. 

“I’m not doing this for you. You don’t deserve it. This is for me,” she tells him, and he nods, because he believes that. 

With that established, she scoots back so that she can undo the catches on his trousers and draw his cock out. It is long and thick and perfect, completely flawless. Her breath hitches at this knowledge that there is one part of him that has not been marred through all he has been through. She wraps one hand around him and puts her other hand between her own legs. He flinches and drops his arms as though to reach for her, but her stern glance has him putting his hands back behind his head. 

Rey rubs between her legs with one hand and tests him with the other. Kylo wishes that he could do both for her, which makes it even sweeter. She arches her back so that he can see her fingers disappearing into her. 

When she gauges that she is ready, she leans forward to rub his length along her slit and cover him with her wetness. Kylo closes his eyes, then quickly forces them open again. His gaze is rapt and unblinking as she very slowly fits herself onto the tip of him, then lets her weight carry her down inch by inch. 

“Oh,” is the only thing he says when he is pressed fully inside her, as close as two human beings can be to each other. “Oh.” 

He did not know it would be like this.

Rey might have guessed. That it would feel hot to burning when her heated flesh parts around him. That the look in his eyes would scald her breasts and her stomach while he watches her move. He won’t drop his arms, because she won’t let him, doesn’t trust him, but he can arch his back and thrust up into her, feel her body slide around his cock. It’s not very comfortable. It’s too much. She can’t say they were made for each other, because he doesn’t quite fit. It is not easy, for her to take him. She has to work at it. There is no forgetting that his cock is buried in her pussy and no denying that it is Kylo inside her. The rapid snap of his hips jolts her from her bearings. 

He didn’t flinch when she cut him, but he cries for this. He cries because it doesn’t hurt him, not a bit. Fat wet tears begin to leak out of the corners of his eyes and dribble down his cheeks, catching in the creases of his mouth as he thrusts and pants, his red lips open and pink tongue caught between his teeth. He cries because she feels good, and safe, and warm, and he never wants to pull his cock out of her. He cries because he wants to empty himself in her, fill her up with him until they are the same inside. The sharp tangled knot of his desire and shame and anger has begun to loosen until it promises to fly apart and burst into a million particles of shadow and light. 

“No,” she tells him sharply, perceiving the thought. “Not yet. Don’t you dare.” She’s had to change so much, in such a short period of time, to meet him in this place that is even halfway feasible on a purely physical level. She has not even begun to acclimate to the idea that _she is fucking Kylo Ren, she has touched his blood and his pus and his cock, and how she has let him part her thighs and touch her in places that have never been exposed._

But he has passed beyond hearing the words she speaks aloud or through the bond, and he could not have stopped his orgasm even had he wanted to. And he doesn’t want to stop it. Life has offered little in the way of sweetness to Kylo Ren and he is seizing every drop of it from this opportunity he never expected nor expects to happen again. And so when he comes, he gives himself over to it completely: his back arches, his hands shake, and he thrusts so deeply inside her that she feels the heat of his spend up against her womb. 

She lets him have the moment. She does not slow the movement of her hips or pull away. But when the pressure in his balls has subsided and reason returns to his face, she gives him a level stare to let him know exactly how not pleased she is, at this moment in time. 

Shame is not an emotion in Kylo’s repertoire. But he does know regret at appropriate times, and he regrets that he did not have more to offer her. 

_You thought I would be good for you? I thought you knew me better._

Kylo’s semen is beginning to leak between their still-joined bodies. He notes it in the same observational way that he knows that he has tears on his face and blood on his shoulders. Kylo was taught by the Sith to feel his passions and the Jedi to examine them. He’s not ashamed of it, but he is tense to see Rey’s reaction.

She could be gentle with him, she thinks. She could give him soft words and understanding. Or hard. She could shout at him and ask him if he even tried. If he even cares. 

Asking Kylo for things has gotten her nowhere thus far. 

So instead of asking him for anything, she leans forward, and his softening cock slips away between her thighs. She brushes his cheeks dry with one thumb, and he leans into the caress. Then she weaves her hand into his hair until all of her fingers are carded into his thick, soft curls. She takes a firm grip on them. 

“You made a mess of me,” she says, shaking his head a little. “You made this mess.” 

She looks down her body, lest he misunderstand. His eyes are nothing but dark and watchful when she looks back up. 

Her hands are both shaking—the one in his hair, and the one she grips the bulkhead behind him with to pull herself up and push his face down at the same time.

“And now you have to clean me up. You have to clean up the mess you made,” she tells him very fiercely. 

He doesn’t help her to straddle his face, but neither does he try to stop her. So she does it ungracefully, catching her cunt against his chin and then the tip of his nose, before she finds a position that works, ankles hooked over his upper arms. When she looks down, his eyes are closed, and he is breathing in their combined scent. 

She presses her body against his face, and for a moment she is afraid he actually will reject her. It’s not the act itself that concerns her, because she knows that neither of them has any real conception of what sex is or what other people do or do not do as an accepted practice, but it is possible that he just does not care enough to exert himself at this point. There is lassitude in his veins and she knows that he would prefer to go away and think about what just happened in dark solitude for a few weeks or months rather than move. 

But when she rubs her clit peremptorily against the bottom of his nose, he does what she wants. His arms wrap around her from behind, and his big palms dig into her ass, fingers clenching hard enough to bruise in a pretty pattern. Best of all, his tongue is not at all tentative when it sweeps along her wet cunt. She can hear it when he swallows and licks her again, and so she knows he is committed. 

Just as he gave himself over to pleasure before, she does now. The slide of his nose against her clit and the thrust of his tongue inside her is very good, and unlike his big cock, they don’t hurt a bit. This part is perfect. This part is how they were meant to be. Kylo thinks that she could easily kill him like this: snap his neck with her thighs or smother him against her body, and the thought excites him. Her too, if she could ever admit it. 

_Admit it, admit it_

His thoughts batter her as the heat of her passion begins to buzz at the base of her spine. 

_Admit that you wanted all of it, you want me, you wanted to say yes, you want to hurt me and love me and punish me and make me come again and again_

She has one hand pinching her own breast, twisting the nipple, and the other holding her body up. Sweat is blooming on her chest and neck and she can feel a trickle of slick, saliva, cum and blood run down her thigh. His lips are now at her clit, swollen and needy. 

_Admit you will take it all from me, admit you want all of it, the dark and the light and the disgusting rotten filthy parts too, it’s all me and you want it_

“ _Ben_ ,” she sobs as she comes. Her body is clenching and spasming, even as Kylo continues to lick at her. She hears the roar of the blood in her ears and something of the Force wrapping around and between them, fuzzing the edges and blurring the distinction between them. 

Rey can’t catch her breath. Her chest keeps heaving even as she pulls off of his face and lays herself down next to him. He wraps his arms around her, big hands tangling into her hair and pressing her against his chest. The air smells like sex and sweat and blood. 

Their hearts are beating at the same tempo. Rey thinks it might be permanent.

He feels pain from the wounds in his back and the bite across his throat, and her cunt is throbbing, but for once Kylo’s soul is calm. Rey has not realized, until now, how much that reflection of his psychic torment has been a fixture in the back of her head. She did not know how calm she could feel while he is safe for a moment, and still. 

“What do you want from me?” Kylo finally asks, his voice fuck-drunk and dazed. At first she thinks his question is a deeply personal one--a demand to define whatever it is they are to each other—and she stiffens. But then she understands from the slack relief in his face that it is much more basic than that. He feels…gratitude, or something like it. Either his life since burning Luke’s temple has been defined by explicit reciprocity in all his relationships, or he has summoned a heretofore unknown generosity of spirit. He wants to give her something, Rey can sense, something she wants, whether that is another orgasm, or a new lightsaber, or perhaps a spaceship loaded with rations and fuel. She considers asking—then dismisses the impulse as unworthy. 

She tilts her head up to press her lips against his, which are raw and swollen firm. He’s unexpectedly sweet about kissing her—gentle and tentative in a way that is wholly incongruous to the way he fucked her. 

“I don’t suppose you’d return to the Light?” she asks once she has wiped her face against his shoulder, keeping her tone gentle so that he knows that she doesn’t really expect a positive response.

He waits longer than she expected for him to answer. It was almost a joke, after all. His jaw twitches in place before he responds. His voice is low and hoarse. “No, never,” he says, his eyes suddenly sad. 

She didn’t think he would answer otherwise, so Rey simply nods and scrapes herself off his broad and sweaty chest, using her discarded cloth to blot first the beads of blood that have bloomed on his shoulders while they dallied with each other, and then the semen and wetness between her legs. 

She tosses it aside and forces a smile at him. 

“Will you use that wash I brought you, then? On your back?” she says, sensing that the Force will split them any moment now. 

Kylo doesn’t rise, his eyes only drinking in her movements. 

“I will,” he says hoarsely. “I will.” 


	2. Bacnelo: the Art

[Bacnelo pic of Rey on Kylo's back, extracting a very grumpy boy's whiteheads]


End file.
